Romance and danger collide in USA TODAY Bestselling
Author Julie Miller’s anthology, MAKE MINE A MARINE.
Three very special heroes take charge in these full-length stories of
military romance and suspense. Once, they put their lives on the line
for their country. Now these former Marine Corps operatives are putting
their lives on the line in the bodyguard business. Brodie, Hawk and Drew
have what it takes to uncover the mysteries surrounding three very
different heroines, and protect them from the threat stalking them. And
though love may not be part of their assigned mission, their heroic
hearts just might lead these hard core vets to a happily ever after… if
they survive.

BJ Kincaid was a genius, a former child prodigy who had built a
multimillion dollar software and gaming empire. But the danger she was
facing now was no game. She was losing chunks of time, coping with the
sudden onset of crippling headaches. Threats to her company, her
friends, her life, now shook her sheltered and shy existence to the
core. She’d dealt with enemies pirating her ideas before, and had solved
any problem she’d ever faced. But this was a puzzle she couldn’t solve,
an enemy she couldn’t defeat on her own. Was she the traitor this time?
Or did the mysterious blackouts and terrorization of LadyTech mean she
was simply going insane?

Brodie Maxwell is the security consultant BJ’s partners hire to
investigate the threats to their company and their friend. But this
beast of a man with deep battle scars inside and out is unlike anyone BJ
has known. Powerfully drawn to Brodie, BJ soon discovers he is a
self-imposed outcast from society, and a kindred spirit who understands
how hard it is to be different. His loneliness matches her own, and his
mix of fiery kisses and surprising compassion rock BJ’s heart. She has
no doubt this former soldier can protect her physically. But will this
man of mystery, who claims the woman who loves him is destined to die,
destroy her soul?

Are they fighting an ancient curse? Or battling an enemy who’s all too
real? Either way, BJ and Brodie are fated to be together…if they live
long enough to make the fairy tale come true.

Sarah McCormick had one last shot at adventure.
Resigned to the life of a spinster after a disastrous love affair, the shy
school teacher planned to lead five teenage girls to the jungles of Isla
Tenebrosa. There, amidst the ruins of an ancient civilization, they would learn
something about history, archaeology and perhaps even about themselves. But a
mountain of a man upset her plans—a handsome Native American who claimed she and
her students would be in peril on the mysterious island. And when the virile
former Marine invited himself on the trip and swore to protect them, Sarah
wondered which was in greater jeopardy—her body or her heart.

As mystifying as the island itself, Hawk had seen a vision of the brainy
schoolmarm and believed their fates were intertwined. Although tempted to school
Sarah’s lithe, surprisingly lush body in lessons of passion, he could sense the
evil lurking amongst the jungle ruins. Still, the bond between them was
undeniable. As death closed in on them, Hawk used every skill he possessed to
keep Sarah and her students alive. But he quickly learned that Sarah herself,
that the power of her sweet kisses and brave heart, might be the only thing that
could save them all and finally bring this noble warrior home.

When Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan
Ramsey disappeared during a covert operation on the dark isle of
Tenebrosa, he vowed nothing could keep him away from his family—not even
death. By faith and determination, the Marine would return to his wife
and child. But the guardian angel that gave him back his life
blundered—Jonathan Ramsey was born again…as someone else.

Emma Ramsey never questioned that she would see her beloved husband
again. But after five years raising a daughter on her own and managing
the multimillion-dollar LadyTech computer empire, she was alone in her
quest to find the man she loved. The government had disavowed her
husband’s team. The military had exhausted its resources tracking down
the missing hero. Only one man, a streetwise private detective with
battle scars of his own, criminal connections and no memory of his past
seemed willing to help with her search. Drew Gallagher’s strong arms and
piercing green eyes made her want and hope again. But was she falling in
love with a hero…or the man who had killed her husband?

Drew’s quest to find his past leads him straight into the arms of the
classy, sexy brunette and her fragile daughter. He couldn’t be more
wrong for Emma—and yet the desire exploding between them couldn’t feel
more right. As he wrestles with his conscience, evil closes in around
them—heralding danger, death and something not of this world.

Can these two uncover the truth with their hearts and lives intact? Or
will they toss aside logic and learn that true love never dies—and that
the greatest hearts are…Always Faithful.

Original Cover
Leisure Love Spell

IMMORTAL HEART

by

Julie Miller

(Original
copyright 1997; Update and Reissue 2011)

PrologueA remote corner of
England, c. 1216

Flames ripped through the night as
another timber fell from the ceiling to the dungeon floor, casting an
eerie phantasm of light over the clanging swords and thrusting, twisting
bodies of men in combat.

The rebels surged forward, sheer number
giving them their only strength against their oppressors. The soldiers
should have been easily taken, their cruel devices easily destroyed, but
darker forces aided them. And the rebels had no such powers for
themselves.

Simple peasants, the rebels knew
nothing of war. Nothing of magic spells. Nothing of combating tyranny
and oppression. They fought against the minions of a former counselor to
the crown, a high priest of mysterious power bent on securing the
loyalty and tribute of the remote villagers.

They faced an enemy, not of flesh and
blood, but of shadows and evil. Soldiers could be gutted with a dagger
or run through with a sword. But a sorcerer .. .

It seemed no weapon could defeat him.

Still, the peasants had a champion, an
aging knight who had long stood against King John. He thought he had
retired that day at Runnymede when he and other
barons forced the king to sign the Magna Carta, putting into law the
ideals of justice and honor he believed in.

But when he had passed through the
peasant villages and seen how their spirits were abused, how their backs
were broken, and how their hopes were shattered, the mighty warrior took
up his sword once more. Weary of battle, but never of the cause of
justice, he rallied the peasants and urged them onward through the
sorcerer's dungeon.

He swung his heavy sword in a mighty
arc, striking a guard in the neck and shoulder, felling him with the
blow. Another uniformed opponent stepped out of the smoke. The warrior
spun around, splitting the man in two with his knife.

He surged forward, his pale eyes
cutting through the haze of smoke to spot the sorcerer. The evil man's
silvery-white robe, with an odd arrangement of stars and half-moons
embroidered with iridescent gold threads, glowed like a beacon in the
dimness of the burning castle above them.

“Sorcerer!” he bellowed. The graying
visage turned toward the challenge and the warrior strode onward. “These
people are not yours to command and defile. Be gone from this place.
Take your evil and suffering with you!”

He tucked his dagger beneath his tunic
and clasped the sword in both hands. All the while, the sorcerer fixed
his eyes on him. Those eyes burned into the warrior's memory. He would
never forget them. Dark and mocking. Devoid of humanity.

“You threaten me?” The sorcerer
laughed, not once flinching from the advancing warrior with his sword
raised to kill. “Even now, your cowardly comrades flee. They run from
what they cannot understand. They leave you to fight alone.”

“I would die before I'd run from an
evil being like you.”

“If you wish.” The sorcerer flicked his
hand into the air and the warrior's sword crashed to the stones at his
feet. “Your puny rebellion does not amuse me. You shall pay the price.”

“I swear I'll kill you with my bare
hands.” He reached out but felt himself pushing against an invisible
wall. Rage swelled within him. “Damn you!”

“Father!” A third voice severed their
duel. “Please, no more!”

The warrior stumbled forward as the
unseen wall crumbled with the sorcerer's distraction. A torch flared to
life, illuminating the aura of dust and smoke engulfing him. Instead of
closing his hands about the sorcerer's throat, he, too, turned.

The maiden stood between two peasants,
a captured prisoner. Her tearstained face trembled as one man clutched
her tightly and held the point of his sword to her throat. A second
spoke.

“Release our village and farms from
your spells. Take away your soldiers and return to the place from whence
you came. Or else we'll slit your daughter's throat.”

“No, she is an innocent!” The warrior's
protest surprised them all.

“Do you not stand with us?” the peasant
demanded. “Do you not see this is the only power we have over him? Look
how his spells are broken when he fears for her safety.”

A shadow passed across the sorcerer's
black eyes. “If you harm her, I will bring a wrath of destruction upon
you that your descendants shall never forget.”

“Father, no. Please. No more.”

The girl's plea touched a chord in the
warrior's heart. He'd seen too much killing in his time to stand by and
watch the slaughter of an innocent, no matter where her allegiance lay.
“Release her.”

“You would betray our cause?” The
peasant drew his knife and pointed it at the girl's stomach. In a
brashness born of years of despair, he plunged the knife into the folds
of her cloak.

But the warrior knew more of fighting
than did the peasant. He lunged forward and twisted the peasant's arm,
sending the knife skittering into the darkness. He shoved the peasant
with the sword aside, and positioned himself beside the girl.

“Betrayer!” The first peasant rushed at
the warrior. “He'll kill us all!”

The warrior pushed the girl toward her
father and braced to face the angry peasant. In that same instant, the
sorcerer flattened his palm and shoved it skyward, muttering a foreign
incantation that sent the attacker flying through the air. The man
landed in a heap, dead as though struck with a blow to the head.

The peasant with the sword ran, but the
sorcerer touched his ring. The man stumbled and fell, his neck broken.

“No!” screamed the warrior. “She lives!
Stop the killing!”

Enraged by the senseless deaths, and
knowing there would be countless others if the madman wasn't stopped,
the warrior picked up the sword of the fallen peasant. He raised it
above his head.

The sorcerer didn't sense the attack
until it was too late. He reached for his ring. But before he could
utter one word, his daughter jumped into the path.

“Not Father!”

The mighty blade sailed through the
air. The warrior cried out, powerless to stop its flight as it sliced
through the only shield the sorcerer possessed.

His daughter.

The girl toppled to the floor,
instantly dead. The sorcerer wailed unintelligibly and dropped beside
her, cradling her spiritless body in his arms.

Horrified by his deed, the warrior fell
to his knees. He bowed his head and prayed for a forgiveness he could
not give himself. “I didn't mean . . . Forgive me. . . .”

He lifted his gaze to the sorcerer.
There were no words he could say. He had slaughtered the very innocent
he meant to protect.

The sorcerer rose, removed his cloak,
and draped the silver and gold shroud over the girl's body. “For this,
they will all die.”

“No!” The warrior shot his head up.
“Take me instead! Punish me!”

“I intend to.” The sorcerer's voice
echoed with a hollowness that extended to another time. He turned,
extending his hand toward the warrior. But it was not a gesture of
conciliation. His eyes blazed with an eerie force before he spoke again.
“You have taken the one thing that mattered to me in this world. My
child. My future. You shall know the same anguish I know.”

A chilling numbness crept into the
warrior's limbs. He grew weaker, powerless to fight off the dizzying
sensation.

“My wife is long dead, and my daughter
was all that remained of her. You, too, shall never know a woman's love.
Nor shall you ever sire a child.”

The warrior collapsed to the floor
beside the dead girl. The smoke thickened. His lungs struggled to fill
with air. The sorcerer was killing him. Through some evil power of the
mind, he was killing him. Slowly, by degrees.

Smoke clouded the warrior's vision. He
lay paralyzed on the cold stone floor.

“Not until the one you love is
willingly sacrificed in exchange for your life will you ever know
peace.”

Mist filled the warrior's head. The
sorcerer's incantations made no sense. The sorcerer touched the
warrior's chest, scorching his skin. “I mark you now. You are a visible
tribute to this day's battle. You will bear witness to every battle you
fight.

“You wish to fight for a noble cause.
You wish to give your life defending those weaker than you.” The
sorcerer looked down on the warrior, laughing with a sound that haunted
the warrior's soul. “I promise you will spend eternity doing just that.”

The warrior's eyes shut and the last
mortal gasp left his body.

Chapter One

The Present

A monster of a man.

Brodie Maxwell read the teenage boy's
opinion of him as easily as he might read a road sign. He ignored the
curious gawking. Other heads turned but quickly looked away. He knew
what they were thinking. He banished mirrors in his house so he,
himself, couldn't see the monster.

He stood a shade over six-feet six and
weighed in at 250 pounds, with impossibly broad shoulders, brawny arms,
and legs like tree trunks. But the brutish appellation didn't stop with
his size and dimension. Strands of silver sliced through his
coffee-colored hair, which he wore cropped to a short length that
emphasized the harsh angles of his face.

That face, an unforgiving landscape,
reflected the horrors of his existence. His once-aquiline nose bent at
two separate spots, reminders of a couple of lucky punches. Mottled
ridges of a grayish-white scar filled the hollow beneath his left
cheekbone and zigzagged into the corner of his mouth. The inflexible
tissue pulled his face into a grotesque grimace whenever he smiled.

Long ago he had learned not to smile.
Not even with his eyes. His steel gray gaze scanned his surroundings at
the LadyTech headquarters building in Kansas City.
He routinely memorized the number of people, their positions, the
accessible exits. The icy eyes missed nothing of the chaotic, cluttered
environment around him, just as they revealed nothing about the man
inside.

Another old habit.

No one had ever called him handsome.
His driver's license said he was forty, but life- experience beyond his
years had taken his ugliness and shaped it into something more than
physical. It shrouded him like a tangible thing, a shield he wore to
keep all but the bravest and most foolish at a distance.

Brodie liked it that way.

Once he was familiar with the layout of
the first floor, Brodie strode from the entryway. Judging by the bustle
of activity and torn-up work stations, some major redecorating was going
on. He crossed to a makeshift table with a sign marked Reception.
But the chair behind it sat vacant.

The high school-aged boy, carrying a
stack of boxes, stopped several feet away. Brodie felt his stare,
curious, fascinated, repelled. Brodie turned his head and nailed the boy
with a piercing look. Startled and ashamed of being caught, the boy
lowered his gaze to a point about equal with Brodie's collar. He cleared
his throat awkwardly, “We're getting ready for our open house, sir. The
receptionist is . . . I'll see if I can find someone to help you.”

The boy tucked in his chin and scooted
past Brodie. Most people did that to him. Too lazy to strain their neck
muscles, or too afraid of what they might see—strangers rarely made eye
contact with him. Brodie didn't mind their rudeness. That way he didn't
have to see their shock and revulsion when they got a good look at his
face.

“Hey, you, punch up the con panel and
see if the screen lights up.”

Brodie's gaze shot around the foyer
again, scanning for the source of the disembodied female voice. It made
him edgy to think he had missed accounting for everyone in the area. It
wasn't like him to make that kind of mistake.

“Hit any button on the keyboard.” The
voice drizzled into his eardrums a second time. From the vicinity of his
feet.

A woman's hand popped out from under
the table and groped at the toe of Brodie's snakeskin boot.

“Yoo-hoo, out there, can you help me?”

Brodie stared at the hand, an ordinary
left hand, without a fancy manicure or jewels to adorn it.

“Yes,” he finally replied when the hand
refused to let go of his foot. The woman couldn't see the whole package,
he thought, or else she wouldn't be so relentless in asking for his
help. Her voice sounded warm, like honey and laughter. Not at all the
sort of tone one used with a stranger.

Or a monster.

“It's okay if you don't understand
computers. Just hand me one of the remotes. I can get it online from
down here.”

Brodie bit back the cutting remark that
would have straightened out the woman's misconception. He was a creature
of duty and chivalry. If a woman requested a favor, he felt honor bound
to help. That was the only reason he'd agreed to this meeting in the
first place. Because the widow of an old friend had asked for his help
in finding out who was pirating creative designs from the LadyTech
Software Communications Corporation.

Dutifully, Brodie searched the tabletop
and picked up a small black box with a series of buttons on one side. He
bent over and placed the remote in the palm of her outstretched hand. He
lowered the bulk of his body, casting his shadow across the hand and
darkening the opening beneath the table.

“Hey, who turned out the lights?”

Once, he would have bristled at the
remark. Now he accepted it without comment.

Seconds later, a company logo flashed
to life on the computer screen. “It's on,” he rumbled, reporting
reluctantly.

“Piece of cake.”

A body materialized at Brodie's feet.

BJ Kincaid scooted out on her backside,
the remote clutched in one hand, a tray of tools in the other. She
paused a moment, leaning back on her elbows to look up at her unwilling
assistant.

“Whoa.” Land of the Giants, she
thought to herself.

BJ's gaze started at the booted ankles
and travelled up a pair of jeans that fitted over the longest, sturdiest
legs she had ever seen, past a black suede bomber's jacket, beyond an
outdated necktie, over a vicious network of scars, all the way up to the
stark gray eyes of the man who towered above her. It was a long trip.
From her perspective, his spiky, military-short hair seemed to brush the
ceiling.

A living mountain. A dark, battered,
unsmiling mountain.

An image from a Frankenstein movie
leapt to mind. Immediately, she shook off the comparison, ashamed of
even thinking it. BJ knew better than most what it was like to be
different from mainstream society. She should be the last person to
judge someone else by a first impression.

Hoping she hadn't revealed her
uncharitable thoughts, she scrambled to her feet. She dropped her tools
on the table and brushed at the untucked hem of her Kansas City Royals
baseball jersey. Standing eliminated only part of the distance between
them. He still stood chest, shoulders, and head above her five-feet,
five-inch frame.

She stuck out her hand and looked him
squarely in the eye. “Thanks for your help. I'm BJ Kincaid.”

Ironically, he seemed the one unwilling
to touch her. A silent moment passed before his hand, nearly double the
size of hers and scored with a dozen scars around tanned knuckles,
wrapped around her fingers and swallowed them in his handshake.

“One of the partners.” BJ could see him
sizing her up, checking his internal data on her. “Along with Emma
Ramsey and Jasmine Sinclair. You're the creative one. You design
LadyTech's programs.”

“Most of them,” she amended, pulling
her hand away. This man knew more about her than a regular customer
would. The observation put her on guard. “Can I help you?”

“I'm here to see Emma. I'm Brodie
Maxwell.” He flipped out an ID that labeled him a security consultant.
Before BJ could question exactly what that meant, he returned his
billfold to his back pocket. “She hired me to investigate a security
leak. I worked with her husband in the Corps.”

Emma's dead husband had led a team of
crack Marine intelligence operatives. That meant this man possessed
certain skills at which she could only guess. All of Jonathan Ramsey's
men had been specialists. BJ wondered what this guy's specialty was.
Stopping tanks with his fists, perhaps?

BJ shivered. Emma had mentioned
bringing in outside help. She knew Emma had only the best interests of
the company at heart. But Brodie Maxwell's presence confirmed that she
was a traitor to both LadyTech and the partners who were her two best
friends.

BJ had developed the missing designs.
They had been her responsibility. Hell, the only way an industrial spy
could get past her self-designed failsafe systems would be for her to
give out the access codes. Which she hadn't. She would never betray her
partners. She would never betray herself. LadyTech was her baby, after
all. Most of its concepts and products originated inside her head.

Therein lay the problem.

BJ had mapped out preliminary designs
for languages, games, and programs that could mean millions of dollars
to the company. Yet no trace of them existed. Not on printouts, not on
disks or memory sticks, not on the server or any hard drive at LadyTech
or her home office. Her own shadowy memories provided the only evidence
that those ideas had ever existed.

But could her memory be trusted? Where
was the proof? Brodie Maxwell looked like a man who wouldn’t quit until
he found answers. BJ dreaded what those answers might be.

She averted her eyes and busied
her hands with rearranging her tools. “I guess you’re really here to
investigate me, then.”

“Excuse me?”

She swiveled her face up to his,
unable to retrieve a welcoming smile. “You want to solve the mystery,
right? I’m giving you your most likely suspect. Me. I’ll show you to
Emma’s office. She’ll be expecting you.”

BJ cleared the screen of the
computer she had just installed before pivoting on her heel and crossing
to the grand staircase leading to the executive offices on the second
floor. Brodie’s long shadow overtook her, chilling her with the
impression of a beast closing in on his prey.

Brodie
ascended the staircase three steps at a time. He debated the woman’s
sudden mood swing. She had been smiling, unguarded, almost—accepting—of
him when she first crawled from beneath the table. But when he
mentioned the purpose of his visit, she closed up. Grew defensive. A
fire lit in her eyes, shouting anger
and distrust. And something else. Fear perhaps?

But of him? Or his mission?

Her bottom swayed on the steps ahead of
him. The loose shirt and baggy jeans camouflaged her figure, but they
couldn't mask the rigid set of her spine. What was she hiding?

Brodie knew the first step in drawing
information out of a suspect was to engage her in innocent, neutral
conversation.

“BJ stands for Bridget Jacoba, doesn't
it?”

“You've done the research—you should
know.” The sharp bite of her words bounced off Brodie's tough exterior,
but the visible sagging of BJ's shoulders told him she regretted saying
them.

She softened her voice and flashed an
apologetic smile over her shoulder. “My mom was Bridget. My dad was
Jake.” She topped the stairs and pointed down an empty corridor. “Emma's
office is at the end. You'll probably . . .”

BJ froze mid-stride. Her voice faded.
“No. Not now.”

Brodie collided with her back, and
would have sent her flying if he hadn't snatched her shoulders,
steadying her. “Miss Kincaid?”

“Get out of my head!”

“BJ?”

Her hands flew to her temples, her
fingers dug into the short curls there. “Get out!” Alarmed, Brodie
turned her, keeping the shelter of one arm around her shoulders. He
gripped her chin and tilted it upward. Her eyes squeezed shut. Was she
having some kind of seizure? He couldn't recall any mention of a
physical disorder in her profile. He searched her twisted features for
an answer.

Wildly, she clutched at his arm,
clenching it with both hands until her knuckles turned white. Then she
began to shake all over.

Her fingernails bit through leather and
cotton into his forearm, but he ignored the bruising pain. If she needed
something to cling to, he presented the most solid object at hand. He
hardly qualified as an adequate nursemaid, but at that moment, he
appeared to be the only one available. “What's happening? Do I need to
call someone?”

“Not this time. I won't let you.”

Brodie realized she wasn't answering
him. He wasn't sure she even knew he was there with her.

“BJ!” He shook her, roughly. “Bridget!”

The demon that possessed her
disappeared as swiftly as it had come. Her body went limp. Her knees
buckled and he scooped her up in his arms. Her head lolled against his
chest, the crown snuggling just beneath his chin.

Damn. The woman was a cuddler. Even
semiconscious, she turned and pressed her soft cheek into his neck.
Every protective instinct that had ever gotten him into trouble
surfaced, unbidden. Briefly, Brodie tried to remember the last time a
woman had nestled against him so needfully without hesitation or fear or
an ulterior motive.

Nothing came to mind. He muttered an
angry epithet and refocused on the situation at hand.

He carried her to the first door on his
right and kicked it open. He allowed himself a moment of stunned
surprise when he entered the room. Other than the antique oak desk with
its two computers in the center, it looked like a child's playroom. A
truckload of toys lay scattered about the floor and on the furniture.
Dolls, models, a train set, games. Floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled
with collections of several kinds, lined one wall. Baseball cards.
Heart- shaped pillows. DVDs.

Without a conscious thought as to why,
he knew this was her office. BJ Kincaid, former child prodigy with a
Mensa-level IQ, multimillionaire partner in one of the hottest companies
on the market, worked in an office overflowing with toys.

He determinedly thrust away a flood of
unwanted emotions, and moved to a sofa behind the desk. Brushing aside a
slew of quilted teddy bears, Brodie laid BJ on the cushions, propping
her head on a stuffed plaid heart.

“Monster in my head. . .” she murmured,
stirring as he elevated her feet.

Brodie knew all about the monsters that
haunted a person's dreams. He got a reminder of his own tortured demons
each time he caught his reflection in a storefront window or rearview
mirror. For him, it was natural, as much a part of him as breathing. But
for BJ, this couldn't be right.

He squatted on the floor beside her.
With one hand, he took both of hers and began rubbing them, kneading
warmth into her limp fingers. He smoothed her bangs from her forehead.
Her skin was cool to the touch.

She had short, soft curly hair, in a
nondescript brownish-blond color. He saw nothing striking about her even
features. She wasn't pretty. She wasn't plain. She was just—average.

Brodie thought it strange that he’d
noticed her looks. And even stranger that he wasn't disappointed. Maybe
it had something to do with the friendly, open smile with which she had
first greeted him. Or the way her eyes boldly met and held his gaze,
despite the way she had to crane her neck to do so.

Or maybe it just had to do with the
fact he was a male animal who had been too long without a mate, and the
sensation of holding a living, breathing female in his arms was all it
took to send his hormones into overdrive. It wasn't a comforting
thought.

Footsteps on the carpet alerted him to
company. “BJ!” Emma knelt beside him, frowning with fear. “Is she hurt?”

“Don't know. She hit the top of the
stairs and had an attack of some kind. When it stopped, she collapsed.”

“This isn't the first time. Sometimes
she loses track of hours. I have no idea how to help her. That's why I
went through Jonathan's journal to track you down.” Emma went to a
built-in bar and brought back some wet paper towels to dab on BJ's face.
“I wasn't sure you'd come.”

“We all made a pact to look out for
whoever was left behind.”

Emma flashed him an apologetic look. “I
led you to believe that I needed help, that the company was in trouble.
But it's really BJ I'm concerned about.”

He shrugged off the misinformation that
had gotten him here and jerked his chin toward BJ. “Looks like she needs
a physician or a psychiatrist more than she needs my services.”

“There's a slight problem with that. BJ
has some real hang-ups about men in lab coats, especially shrinks. I
can't get her near one. Jas and I have both tried.”

Brodie wondered what someone as smart
mouthed yet ingenuous as BJ had to fear from a psychiatrist.

BJ moaned, shifted on the pillow, and
groaned again. “Tell him all of it, Emma. If he's the savior you say he
is, you'd better tell him everything.”

Her eyes fluttered open. For the first
time, Brodie noticed their unusual color. Not just green, but dark and
blue-flecked, like a shadowy spruce forest. Earlier they had sparkled
with humor, gleamed with intelligence. Now, a haze of uncertainty and
fatigue clouded her eyes.

Her gaze wavered over Emma, then
settled on Brodie. “It's not just my ideas that are being stolen.
They're taking my sanity. Somebody's playing with my head. It's as if
they're tapped into my brain, pulling out ideas before I can even get
them on paper.”

“So what just happened was normal
behavior?” BJ's caustic remark echoed in the quiet.

“What did just happen?” Brodie asked.
He rose and walked around the room, looking for hidden surveillance
devices, getting a feel for BJ Kincaid.

Emma helped BJ sit up. BJ waved aside
any further help and focused on Brodie. “You won't find any bugs—audio,
visual, or tapped into the computer lines—I've checked.”

Brodie admired her astuteness.
Nonetheless, he remained quiet. A long silence passed before BJ
continued.

“These episodes happen two, three times
a week. For about three months now. It's like . . .”

He heard her breath catch. The
recollection obviously pained her. But he said nothing to ease her
discomfort. It wasn't his place to do so. He’d agreed to help Emma
because he owed her husband a favor. But when the job was finished, he
intended to get back to his own life, solitary hell that it was. He
didn't need to worry about anybody else's pain.

“It's like a shadow creeping into my
brain. I feel it coming, pushing out everything else. Suffocating my
ability to reason. Sometimes I beat it back, like today. Other times . .
. I don't know when I lose it. Next thing I know, I wake up. I have a
memory of the time passing, but nothing tangible to show for it. I'd
write them off as dreams except they're too real. And afterward, I have
the most awful headache you can imagine.”

Brodie paused at the DVD collection on
the shelves. The movies consisted mostly of science fiction, including a
vast assortment of old monster movies. Frankenstein. The Thing.
Godzilla. She must think him a real-life extension of those video
monstrosities.

“See anyone you know? You're not even
listening to me.”

Decades of training in steely
self-control kept him from starting at the sound of BJ's voice near his
elbow.

“I heard every word.” He angled his
face toward hers. She had incredibly expressive eyes. And the pissed-off
message she broadcast to him now was unmistakable. He had to admire her
courage. People rarely stood up to him. A savage look or sharp word
usually deterred any challengers.

He'd enjoy going a few verbal rounds
with BJ. She didn't intimidate easily. She spoke her mind and teased him
more than most people ever dared try. But while the idea sounded
provocative, he was in no position to indulge himself. Personal
involvement meant risk. It meant the possibility of caring. And caring
meant death.

He would never take that risk again.

Brodie hooked his thumbs into the front
pockets of his jeans, hunched his shoulders and scowled at BJ. “You talk
about monsters in your head. Ghosts taking over your thoughts.” He
nodded toward the shelves of movies. “You're sure you're not imagining
this?”

Color flooded her cheeks. Then she
caught him completely off guard and shoved at his chest, knocking him
back a step. “You . . . You . . . Get the hell out of here!”

After the emotional release of the
first blow, BJ attacked him in earnest. Brodie shifted his weight to
balance himself, and stood immovable while BJ punctuated each word with
a furious, desperate shove.

“I'm . . . not . . . crazy . . . !”

“BJ, stop.” Emma gently reprimanded her
friend and hurried over to help. But Brodie shook his head and warned
her off.

BJ couldn't damage him, so Brodie took
the brunt of her outburst, lifting some of the burden of coping from the
two women. That much he could do for them.

“I am not crazy,” BJ repeated through
sobbing breaths, clasping his hands and clinging to him like a lifeline.
“Somebody's doing this to me. I'm not crazy.”

He absorbed the last of her fury and
frustration into his calloused palms. When she was spent, she leaned
forward and rested her forehead against him, seeking comfort.

From him?

The trusting gesture surprised him even
more than the first blow of her attack.

She must have finally realized he had
nothing to offer her, because she pulled away. She took a step back and
hugged herself tightly, giving herself the solace he could not. She
lifted her face to his.

BJ's eyes were dark, desperate,
hopeful.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that.
I promise to keep it all together if you stay and help me. Please.”

This wasn't right. Expecting him to be
anybody's rescuer. Missing data or industrial espionage he could handle.

But asking him to help a damsel in
distress? In the cobwebby recesses of his mind, he tried to remember
what laughter sounded like. He should be laughing at their ludicrous
expectations of him.

Emma stepped behind BJ, squeezing her
shoulders in support.

“Jonathan said you handled unusual
cases for him.” Emma's concerned focus was on her friend, while BJ still
concentrated her pleading eyes on him. “But more than that, he said you
never quit until everyone was safe. Until everyone was accounted for.
You weren't on his last mission, were you?”

Brodie shook his head. Jonathan Ramsey
never returned from that last mission. The team had searched for over a
year but found no body. Brodie still followed up any remote lead that
presented itself. But his friend seemed to have vanished from the face
of the earth.

Emma blinked moisture from her smoky
blue eyes. “I believe if you had been on that mission, Jonathan would
have come home to me. He believed in you that much. Because of that, so
do I.

He thought he had left fear far behind,
but the innocent hope in her deep green eyes frightened him.

“You're comparing me to one of the
monsters in the story?”

“No.” She reached for one of his hands
and gently spread it open, palm up. With her thumb she traced the
expanse of his long, blunt-tipped fingers, touching each scar and callus
as if his hand were a rare, precious thing. “You're the slayer of
monsters.”

Even more than her words, BJ's
guileless, gentle touches rocked him to the core. She didn't even know
him. The damn fool didn't have sense enough to understand that he could
break her neck with that hand. Yet she held on to him, fearful only of
the monster inside her head, not of the one standing before her.

Brodie swore violently to himself. This
job was going to get personal, he could tell. Yet, despite his
misgivings, he accepted that he had already signed on for the duration.

Delaying the inevitable, he thrust BJ
and her soulful eyes away from him and stalked across the room. He
swiped a hand over his stubbly hair before turning to speak.

“I don't think you're crazy.” He wasted
no time in getting down to work. “I suspect you're under the influence
of mind control.”

“Mind control?” BJ and Emma echoed
together.

“Posthypnotic suggestion.
Brainwashing. I can't be certain, but that's my guess. The attacks come
on suddenly, then vanish, leaving a vague memory, but no tangible
proof.” He saw the wheels turning in BJ’s head, first evaluating, then
accepting his hypothesis.

“You think someone has programmed
me? How? Who?”

He shrugged his shoulders.
“Figuring out how it’s being done, and who’s responsible, is harder to
solve. It will be pretty damn difficult, in fact.”

“But not impossible.”

“No.” He paced the room, needing
an outlet for the sudden wellspring of energy coursing through him. He
always experienced this rush when he geared up for battle. And this
could only be described as a battle. A battle with an unseen enemy
haunting an innocent woman’s mind. And an ongoing battle within
himself. He couldn’t afford to lose either one.

“I’ll become your shadow,” he
explained. “Learn your habits, your friends At home and at work.
I’ll need to observe these episodes firsthand, plus see who has a motive
and the opportunity to trigger them. You’ll feel like a lab rat with
the scrutiny I’ll put you through.”

He paused when he saw that his
words made her look uncomfortable. “Lab rat? Just what does that mean,
exactly?”

“It means I’m
going to move in with you. I’m going to drive you wherever you need to
go. I’m going to be at every meeting you attend. I needto know everything in
order to figure this out. I'll be closer to you than your own shadow.”

“Is that really
necessary?”

He could see some backbone returning,
and he felt encouraged rather than put off by her accusing look. “It is
if you want me to find out the truth,” he said.

“Can't you just ask me some questions?”

“Do you have the answers?”

Defiance
sparkled in her eyes. Then she looked over at Emma and sighed with quiet
resignation. “Okay.”

He wondered what concession she had
just made. “Everywhere, BJ. I mean it.”

After a tense moment, she smiled. It
was like the sun breaking through the clouds. Bright and beautiful. The
kind of smile you couldn't resist returning. Unless you never had any
reason to smile. Like Brodie.

“I'll get used to it. I'm warning you,
though. Folks will talk. I don't usually keep company with tall, dark
strangers.”

She was teasing again. Where the hell
did she get her misplaced faith in him? Slayer of monsters? Ha! Couldn't
she see the truth right before her eyes?

Still, her innocent trust touched
something in him. His intrinsic code of honor, no doubt.

“I'll help you,” he heard himself
promise. “I'll find out who's playing with your head, and how it's being
done. I'll put a stop to it.”

Or else he’d always be haunted by BJ’s
frank green eyes, wide open and trusting. Looking to the big, ugly
monster of a man for answers. And asking for—of all things to expect
from a man who held none for himself—hope.

Sarah nodded mutely
and watched the leaves of the jungle swallow up her host and his
warning. She seethed with anger, unable to move, unable to find any
scapegoat except herself. Luis might knowingly have hired some lecherous
pedophile or rapist or God knew what kind of creep to work on his crew,
but it was her fault they were there. Her fault the girls might be in
danger. Her fault she didn't know how to read men. Her fault.

Hawk was right. She
had no business coming to Tenebrosa. She should be grateful to Luis for
at least giving her a concrete reason to stay away from the place. Hawk
had yet to prove so helpful. She didn't want to alarm the girls, but she
had better get back and make sure they understood the need to stay
together with her or a friend at all times.

As she followed the
trail of hand-cut leaves and branches along the jungle floor, she lifted
her long braid from the natural valley between her breasts. With an
annoying realization, she conceded that Hawk was right on at least one
point. Wherever the weight of her hair touched her, she broke out in
beads of sweat.

The unaccustomed
heat only added to her aggravation with him. Silently cursing him with
each step, she stalked back toward camp until a movement caught her
attention from the corner of her eye. She froze in her tracks and swung
the light to her right, catching the end of a green tail scurrying away
into the underbrush.

And then, while she
waited for her heart to settle back down out of her throat, she became
aware of another sensation. A feather light cloak of awareness settled
over her shoulders. Gentle as a caress, the unseen touch nevertheless
chilled her with its unwavering intensity.

Drawn by some
untapped sixth sense, Sarah slowly turned and shined her light over her
shoulder. Hawk stood there, several paces behind her, looking at her.
Looking into her. His dark eyes blazed with that unearthly light she'd
seen back at the airport, and she was struck by the sensation that he
knew what she'd been thinking. Knew how damning her thoughts had been.

"You shouldn't be
out here alone." His voice vibrated across the distance, a bare whisper
in the encroaching night.

" Are you following
me?" He advanced on her, and Sarah involuntarily backed away as he
quickly closed the distance with his long strides.

"Sarah!"

She jumped back
from his hoarse command. The flashlight clattered to the ground, and her
hair snagged on something behind her. She reached back to free her braid
from its entanglement, and Hawk lunged forward.

"No!"

He grabbed her
wrist and yanked her toward him. At the same instant, he reached into a
pocket of his vest and pulled out a knife. Not a knife. A sword! A
wicked, twelve-inch killing thing that glinted in the twilight.

He raised it above
his head and swung it down with deadly force. Sarah screamed. She jerked
her shoulder away from the sure blow and rammed into the brick wall of
his chest. His arm trapped her there like a steel vise and lifted her
clear off the ground. She pounded with her fists and kicked with her
legs, pummeling for all she was worth, frantic with the knowledge that
he would attack her, desperately frightened to realize how much bigger
and stronger and unyielding he was than she.

"Sarah! It's over
now. It's okay." Her feet touched the ground and his shoulders curved
over her, blocking out the rest of the night.

His chest muffled
her screams. Through her daze of panic she heard low-pitched
reassurances crooning in her ear. The arm that had cinched her to him
still held her just as tightly but he splayed his fingers and stroked up
and down the side of her rib cage, soothing her like a frightened
animal.

As the hazy grip of
panic began to clear, she realized that she felt no pain. He hadn't
stabbed her after all.

"What?" She gasped,
gathering her composure as much as her breath. "Why?" Her senses
returned and she remembered the knife. The big knife. She angled her
head back because she could move no further and slapped at his shoulder.
"What are you doing with a weapon like that here? It's stupid and
dangerous—"

"That's better. I'd
rather see you spitting mad than afraid." She wanted to stay angry with
him. She wanted to vent her frustrations, but his unexpected teasing
undid her. She stopped her tirade and noticed his mouth, mere inches
from hers. Smiling.

She caught her
breath at the sheer masculine beauty of it. Straight white teeth framed
by firm, thin lips. They were close enough that she could feel his warm
breath fanning across her face. She inhaled the soapy, clean, masculine
scent of him, tinged by the faint pungency of the insect salve he, too,
wore.

Sarah's stomach
flip-flopped. An unusual heat sparked there and curled lower as a whole
new set of sensations vibrated through her, every bit as powerful as her
anger, but much more pleasurable. His chest was so hard, his hold
unbreakable yet so gentle, his mouth so tempting.

She stared at that
temptation and discovered she couldn't speak. Her throat tightened with
a customary clench of shyness. She damned her cursed inability to voice
her desires. She wanted to savor the rush of adrenaline coursing through
her. She wanted to channel it in a way a woman and man could share
together. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to want to kiss
her. And yet she knew he wouldn't. All she could do was lecture him. All
he could do was put up with her.

"You were backing
into a web." As if sensing her clouded ability to speak, Hawk took over
the duties for her. Grateful for the change of topic that doused both
her desire and her embarrassment, she relaxed and followed the
inclination of his head.

He twisted his
right wrist and lifted his knife to eye level. Skewered at the end was a
brown, hairy spider the size of two Ping-Pong balls stuck together.

"Spider! Big
spider!" she shrieked.

She spun and buried
her face in his shoulder. As hard as she had hit him before, she now
clutched him tightly, clinging to fistfuls of his shirt and vest. She
felt his arm flinch as he flicked the horrid creature into the jungle
and wiped the blade clean on his pant leg.

He shifted his
stance and wrapped both arms around her, catching her more fully in his
embrace. He tugged at her braid, picking out the sticky white residue
that had caught her hair. He bent his head and cooed into her ear,
calming her with whispers in a language she didn't understand. The ups
and downs of the day caught up with her and she sagged against him,
weary with emotional fatigue, grateful for his gentle, steadying
strength.

"That's it, honey.
You're gonna be all right. You'll beat this like you beat those
bureaucrats back home."

Hawk heard the
endearment slip out and questioned the wisdom of his actions. He'd never
had a woman melt into him with such guileless abandon before. She fit
him just right, with the crown of her hair nestling beneath his chin and
her long legs placing her hips just at the juncture of his thighs. He
doubted she had any idea how provocative it could be to empower a man
with that kind of trust.

What could be the
harm in just holding her? he reasoned weakly. She'd been through a real
scare. First him, then the knife, then the spider. Any decent man would
comfort her. And he liked to think of himself as a decent man.

She sighed and
burrowed into him, unwittingly rubbing against the one place she
shouldn't, and all thoughts of decency popped out of his brain. Prim and
proper Miss McCormick wasn't a shapeless bag of fragile female as he had
first envisioned. Even in the trim knee-length shorts and sensible
blouse she was wearing he could feel the shape of her. Her hips flared,
full and womanly, hinting at an earth-mother fertility he loved, but
which most women tried to diet away or camouflage. Her breasts were
small but unexpectedly sassy, like their owner. Having them flattened
against him like this, he couldn't help but notice their proud tips.

And when she looked
at him with those big eyes, golden pools flecked with green that
revealed raw, uncontrolled emotion, he nearly lost all perspective. She
wanted to be kissed. Even if he couldn't read the desire swirling about
her face in a fiery halo, he could see it in the breathless parting of
her lips. And man, was he tempted to give her what she asked. Tempted to
forget decorum and missions and taking care of business, and sample what
she unconsciously offered him.

He could just tilt
her chin up and slide his mouth over hers. Play a little game with her,
teach her and tease her with his lips and tongue.

He knew
instinctively that this was a woman who would respond to a man's touch,
a sensual woman made all the more appealing because she wasn't aware of
her sensuality. She didn't flaunt her assets or make coy come-ons to a
man.

It was that
ladylike reticence that brought him to his senses at last. He eased his
hold on her, but didn't pull away because she had yet to let up her
death grip on the front of his clothes. As base as his own thoughts had
been, he couldn't leave her without the support she needed until she
could summon her own strength.

Now was the time
that he should reassure her. He should explain that the spider's bite
wasn't poisonous, though its size alone could leave a nasty wound that
would need medical treatment to prevent infection. He should tell her
that all of Salazar's men carried big hunting knives, too, that it was
standard equipment for jungle travel.

But he didn't want
to talk. He didn't want to say anything that might break the spell that
anchored Sarah to him.

Because the wishful
part of him that he guarded so carefully didn't want her to leave. He
might be a god to some, a freak of nature to others, but he was still a
man. And like a man, he relished the joy of simply holding a woman. He
found a rare contentment in savoring the fresh, unperfumed scent of her.
His hormones churned with renewed vigor as his thoughts wandered into
the realm of fantasy.

The soldier in him
knew he should move on. He should separate himself from irrelevant
complications like discovering a sexy side to Miss Schoolmarm here, and
get back to the business of seeing her safely back to camp. But he
didn't listen to the mystic or the soldier. He listened to the man.

He leaned back and
sheathed his knife in the leather casing inside his vest. As expected,
her eyes lit with a spark of nervousness, but still she clutched at him.
He brushed his fingertips along her cheek, quieting her as he'd soothe a
skittish colt. And then he slipped his fingers beneath her chin and
tipped her face toward his. The unpainted angles of her cheeks and
forehead were flushed with the colors of fear and anticipation.

He studied her
mouth. Asymmetrical in shape, it was precisely drawn on top and full on
the bottom. It had blossomed like a flower when she smiled. Would it do
the same if he kissed her? He touched her bottom lip with the pad of his
thumb. Just as he imagined, it was soft as a petal beneath his callused
touch, pink as a rosebud against his bronzed skin. The contrasts alone
aroused him, lured him. He bent his head, seeking just a taste, a crumb
to feed his lonely soul. But before their lips met, she trembled beneath
his touch, ever so slightly, stroking him with an unintentional caress.

He felt the tiny
tug all the way down to the soles of his boots.

The electric jolt
snapped him back to reality.

Hawk cursed himself
for dropping his guard like that. What was he thinking? The last thing
he needed was to turn his curiosity about a prim and proper virgin into
some kind of mystical experience. She had to be an innocent. She was too
damn naive and trusting for her own good. She had no idea what she'd
been asking of him. No idea how he wanted to answer her.

Hawk released her,
holding his hands out to either side as if she had scorched him. "Not
tonight, schoolmarm."

Her gaze snapped at
him at the intentional use of the nickname. He braced himself, waiting
for her to go all prissy on him. Waiting and deserving to hear her chew
him out good for playing with her like that.

She shoved her
fists against him and he willingly stepped back, putting much-needed
breathing space between them. But she didn't yell at him. She didn't
lecture him for putting his hands on her. She didn't accuse him of
forgetting his place. She didn't do anything to him.

Instead, she closed
herself off. The aura he read so easily vanished as if she'd flipped a
switch. She folded her arms across her stomach, protecting herself. Not
from him, but from something hidden within. A memory. A secret. A
forgotten fear or disappointment that he'd stirred up accidentally.

"Sarah, I'm sorry.
I couldn't believe Salazar left you out here alone. I didn't mean to—"

"Of course you
didn't mean to. No one ever does." She shuddered, shaking off whatever
unwanted feelings he'd roused in her. She squared her shoulders and
lifted her chin. Hawk waited for the onslaught.

The fact that it
never came bothered him more than he cared to admit. Being shy and
inexperienced was one thing; he found her natural timidity endearing.
The way she got tongue-tied at times made her human, vulnerable. But her
shutting everything off inside worried him. At the very least she should
slap his face for holding on to her like that, for flirting like a man
when she needed an impersonal bodyguard. It was wrong for her to accept
blame or embarrassment or whatever it was that shut down that tart
tongue of hers.

"Sarah?"

"I'd better get
back. I don't like what Luis said. I should be with the girls now."
Impersonal and efficient as an automaton, she picked up the flashlight
and started off. She halted after two steps into the darkness. "Darn
it."

She turned around
and held out the flashlight. "I think I broke it."

He could be coldly
efficient, too. Hell, nobody, not even Miss Priss, was better at that
game than he was. He snatched the flashlight and inspected its metal
casing. He tightened the cap, then slapped the butt of it twice in his
palm. The light snapped on, canceling out the shadows surrounding them.

He ignored her
outstretched hand, reminding himself of the reason he'd come to
Tenebrosa in the first place. Evil was a dark thing. And the shadows of
the jungle gave evil plenty of places to hide. Sarah and her band of
teenagers were innocent lights. He'd come here to make sure their light
didn't go out.

He'd come to
reclaim a lost part of himself from the shadows.

His mind clear to
its purpose once more, he handed her the flashlight, but kept hold of
his end, binding them together for a brief moment of understanding.

"I heard what
Salazar said. Martín won't hurt the girls. I promise."

She dropped her
aloofness once the topic turned to someone other than herself. "How do
you know that?"

Should he tell her
he could read the black-tipped auras of deceit surrounding Martín and
Antonio? Should he tell her how much it concerned him that he couldn't
get a clear impression of Salazar himself? That he'd spent all day
looking for nonmystical clues to either confirm or deny his suspicions
of the man?

He answered by
pulling himself up to his full six feet, four inches of height and
turning his face into her light, purposely enhancing the angles and
shadows of his face. "Do I look like somebody they'd want to mess with?"

She smiled at him
then, not the least bit intimidated by his show of force. "I guess not."

Caught off-guard by
her unanticipated reaction, Hawk thought her generously curved mouth was
the most incredible thing he had ever seen. Stunned by the surprising
revelation of beauty, he released the flashlight and murmured a response
to her good-night.

"Hawk? What's your
real name?"

Preoccupied as he
was, the query came out of left field. But not since a painful day on
the playground back in second grade had he let that one slip. "Un-uh."
He shook his head. "Family secret."

Her smile remained
fixed in place, and Hawk basked in the glorious gift that pierced the
darkness around his heart. "I'm a smart woman, you know. I enjoy
figuring out puzzles."

"Believe me, you'll
never figure me out."

Her mouth flattened
into a serious line. "I believe you when you say you'll protect us. I
hope it doesn't come to that, though."

Accepting her trust
was a dangerous responsibility, one he couldn't guarantee living up to.
But for his own sake, he had to try. "It won't."

"I'll see you in
the morning, then. Save a seat on that last truck for me."

Hawk followed the
sweet little sway of her tush all the way back into camp, torturing
himself with thoughts that were sure to shock Sarah. Talk about puzzles.
No one, not once since he'd lost his father early in the war dubbed
Desert Storm and his great-uncle Otis had stepped in to teach him how to
be a man and how to use and respect his special gifts, had ever been
curious enough to figure him out. No one except Otis and his mother,
Lily, had ever cared enough to try.

But the schoolmarm
wanted to. He didn't mistake her curiosity for caring. He'd known a
couple of women in his time who were intrigued enough to peel away a few
layers of the mystique he'd carefully built around himself for
protection and survival. But once they got to the weird stuff, they
fled, repulsed by the unnatural powers of the man beneath the facade.

The difference this
time was that he felt equally intrigued. What made the men of Marysville
ignorant of Sarah McCormick's quiet beauty and amazing courage? What
made her cling to him like a bee on a flower, then force him into battle
mode to defend himself against that wicked, preachy mouth of hers?

The prim and proper
schoolmarm was a puzzle he wanted to solve. But he couldn't allow
himself that pleasure. He was here on a mission, determined to keep
history from repeating itself.

Forgetting that
might turn Sarah into another victim of Tenebrosa's evil history.

Drew Gallagher shifted on the cold stone bench,
stretching his long legs into a more comfortable position. After five
hours on stakeout, he felt about as comfortable as the men who had worn
the suits of armor on display in front of him must have.

He'd already studied them in detail. He'd memorized
every hinge, every clamp, every bit of protective shielding on those
figures hours ago. Just as he'd analyzed and catalogued every visitor,
volunteer, and employee who strolled along the black marble halls of the
Nelson-Atkins Art Gallery in Kansas City, Missouri.

He sighed. This sorry case he was working on didn't
fall into his usual area of expertise. Anybody could do a simple
stakeout. He preferred the challenge of going undercover, assuming a new
identity, becoming whoever he needed to be. At that, he was an expert.
The charge of danger electrified him, gave him a focus, made him feel
alive.

Lying in wait for a suspect who might not even show
up was a tedious assignment by comparison. It gave him too much time to
think, too much time to ask questions. And too much time to realize how
few answers he had.

The D.A.'s office must be falling behind to hire a
freelancer like himself. And since his own private investigation
business had slowed during the post-holiday season, he'd taken them up
on their offer. He didn't need the money. He needed the favor in his
portfolio. He'd made a couple of questionable moves on his last case,
and a little brown-nosing with the county courts might ease their
scrutiny of his work.

Otherwise, he wouldn't be here. All Drew had to do
was wait for Stan Begosian to show his face, then record the man's
activities for the alleged child pornography case they were putting
together against him.

"Here we have examples of medieval suits of armor."
The tour guide's voice broke into his thoughts, the over-rehearsed
monologue a slight distraction in his continuing surveillance of the
room. It was the third group of students to come through in the last
hour. First- or second-graders, judging by the size of them. About the
same age as Begosian's usual victims.

"Are these ch-children's sizes?" A dark-haired
girl, front and center of the group, whispered the question.

"No." The guide laughed. "This armor was built for
full-grown men, the warriors of their time. The average size of humans
has increased over the years."

"Are they from the eleven hundreds?" one boy asked.

"I believe so. You know, around the time of King
Arthur."

The dark-haired girl tipped her head back. "The
real K-King Arthur lived in the s-s-sixth cent-tury. My Aunt Jasmine saw
where he and G-Guinevere are buried in G-Glastonbury, England."

"Yes, of course, dear."

Drew felt himself sitting up a little straighter,
worrying for the little girl stuttering through her explanation. He
silently applauded her for sticking to her guns in the face of the
guide's sugary condescension. She might have stumbled over some of the
big words, but she knew her stuff. Smart kid.

"Kerry." A woman's voice, soft and throaty, sounded
beside him, and a figure in a navy blue suit walked past to join the
students. "You can ask more questions later. We need to move along
before the next class comes through."

"O-k-kay, Mom."

"Thank you, Mrs. Ramsey."

Drew hunkered back down on his bench, watching the
cool way Mrs. Ramsey ignored the tour guide's fawning. Drew listened as
she talked to her daughter, and he found himself drawn to her voice. It
was seductive. Not that it was lewdly overdone like a woman making a
come-on. She still sounded like a mother, all right. He just liked the
sound of it. A lot.

The woman joined three other parents to herd the
thirty or so students through the doors at the opposite end of the room.
Drew enjoyed the view. Now she was something that could truly distract
him. He adjusted his glasses, peering through the narrow-framed lenses
to get the best view possible. The woman had legs.

Great legs that ran all the way up to her tight
little bottom. A picture made even more appealing by the fact she tried
to camouflage her sleek curves beneath the sensible cut of a navy
pinstripe business suit.

Everything about her spoke of sensibility. She was
taller than most women, almost his height, in fact, though she wore
low-heeled pumps to try to play it down. Dark, rich waves of hair that
must feel like soft silk to the touch were pulled back by a clip at her
nape.

She had money. He could tell by the expensive
leather purse she carried. But she didn't advertise it in any other way.
No artful fingernails. No fancy jewelry. Just a plain gold wedding band
with a diamond solitaire on her left hand.

Moving nearer, Drew leaned back against a stone
pillar and watched unobtrusively until she vanished into the next room.
She was nice. Very nice. But not his type. Definitely not his type. The
whole air of the woman, in addition to the Grace Kelly figure, said
wholesome suburbia. Class. Culture. Respectability.

Pure trouble for a guy like him. Not that he didn't
enjoy playing out of his league every once in a while. There was a
perverse satisfaction in knocking one of those class-acts out of her
Ferragamos. He felt occasionally obligated to wake them up to reality,
proving that he wasn't so far beneath them on the social register as
they might think. Or as close to the seedy world of the streets as he
might feel.

But he drew the line at married women.

Look, but don't touch.

The sign near the room's entrance mocked him. "As
if you need the reminder, Gallagher."

Drew sighed and rolled his neck to loosen the
muscles cramping there. He'd enjoyed the show while it lasted. Mother
Pinstripe would never know how closely he'd scrutinized her. It was time
to get back to work.

"That place on his boot is shiny because all the
boys and girls rub it for good luck."

Drew turned at the high-pitched tenor of a man's
voice. He'd slipped. A man in a brown tweed overcoat with its collar
turned up to his ears had moved into the room without being spotted. The
man's face remained hidden, but Drew's hackles shot up, and a
time-tested sixth sense that alerted him to danger pushed him to his
feet.

Kerry. The name stuck in his head as something
familiar. Mother Pinstripe had used it. Kerry, the intelligent little
girl with the stutter, had slipped away from her class to study the
armor more closely. Mr. Tweed Coat sauntered in her direction, speaking
calmly, knowledgeably.

"Upstairs, the museum has tapestries that were made
in the Middle Ages. One of them portrays the legend of Arthur and the
Round Table. Would you like to see them?"

Though she sidled a few steps away, Drew crept up
close enough to see Kerry turn her big blue eyes on the man. "My Mom
says I shouldn't t-talk to s-strangers."

* * *

"Kerry?"

Of all the dark heads scattered throughout the
miniatures room, none belonged to her daughter. Emma choked down the
swell of panic. A second survey of the room confirmed her worry. No
Kerry.

Emma quickly retraced her steps toward the main
concourse. Her daughter had led the way in, while she'd brought up the
rear. But then she'd gotten to talking with Mrs. Simmons about
arrangements for the class's Valentine's Day party, and she'd lost track
of her daughter.

Calm in a crisis. Emma Ramsey had earned that
reputation running the administrative side of LadyTech, a software
communications corporation she owned with her two closest friends.

She'd be damned if she'd lose her composure now
just because her little girl had wandered off. Kerry was bright.
Curious. And Emma worried about her only child way too much. She trusted
the girl to be sensible. To stay safe.

It was all the other bozos and maniacs in the world
she didn't trust.

The armor room had several patrons milling about
inside. But it was empty of the one person who counted.

And that man.

She'd felt his presence when she'd entered the hall
earlier, felt the cool weight of his eyes on her.

Blond, she remembered. Longish hair, with a lock
that fell beside his temple. Glasses. An artist, perhaps. No? Too much
danger, too much mystery. Despite his golden good looks, darkness hung
around him like a cloak.

A chill raced along her spine, knowing he'd
watched her. A chill matched only by the heart-numbing fear of knowing
he'd now disappeared, along with her daughter.

She alerted the security guard at the entrance,
giving him a succinct description of Kerry. While he radioed his staff,
Emma walked back to the main concourse in Kirkwood Hall, turned in a
slow 360-degree arc, then waited for some instinct to tell her where to
look.

She imagined a tap on her shoulder, nudging her
feet into motion. She started walking, searching for either the blond
man or her daughter. The museum had two large wings, three floors and a
basement. A lot of square feet for a little girl to get lost in—or for a
dangerous man to lurk in.

The sculpture garden would be closed because of the
snow, so she didn't bother to look there. Something urged her up the
stairs to the west.

Fear hastened her steps. Her world had shattered
five years ago when her husband, Jonathan, disappeared. Lost on a
mission, she'd been told. MIA. The authorities had given her no body to
bury. No culprit to blame. He was just gone.

She'd rebuilt her life and heart around her only
tangible link to Jonathan—their daughter.

She couldn't survive losing Kerry, too.

* * *

"Th-th-this isn't the way to the t-tapest-try
room."

Drew hurried down the deserted marble hallway,
following the little girl's halting voice. He coached her beneath his
breath. "That's it, kid. Tell him off. Make a scene."

It was his duty to save the girl. Despite the
D.A.'s instructions to simply observe, he intended to take Begosian
downtown. But if Drew showed himself too soon, the dirt bag would
bolt—maybe escape. And the knowledge that he'd be free to molest some
other child, especially if they were all as gullible as this one, burned
in every chivalric bone in Drew's body.

Where were the damned security guards who swarmed
all over the first floor? He unzipped his jacket and unfastened the
catch on his holster before stepping into the Modern Art wing. Large
paintings of stripes and geometric figures and cans of soup lined the
walls, and unfortunately placed partitions blocked his view through the
center of the room.

"Are y-you real?"

The girl had stopped in front of a strikingly
lifelike figure of a patron staring at one of the murals. Drew had read
of this famous sculpture, and how startled visitors often apologized for
getting in its way before realizing it was one of the artworks on
display.

Drew rounded a partition and walked straight over
to the girl. Begosian jumped in his shoes, alarmed as if Drew himself
was a statue come to life.

"Put your hands where I can see 'em, Stan." He
pulled out his wallet and flashed his ID at the little girl without
taking his eyes off his prey. "I'm here to help you. Get over here
behind me."

Instead of obeying, the little girl stopped beside
Drew and reached for his hand. Startled by the unexpected touch, he
glanced down. The brief distraction was enough to send her stocky
abductor running toward the far exit. Drew's instinct to pursue jolted
through his legs, but the girl's trusting grip around his fingers
anchored him in place.

He bent his knees and hunched down to the girl's
level. "You need to find a security guard," he said softly. "Tell him
you're lost and you have to find your mother. He can call her name over
the intercom."

Drew straightened, took a step. But Kerry tugged at
his hand. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Begosian near the archway.
He turned back.

Drew squatted down, took the girl gently by the
shoulders, and fought to comprehend how a child's mind worked. "Is Faith
your mom?"

Her sable curls bobbed around her cheeks as she
shook her head. "She's my friend. Mom can't t-talk to her because she
d-doesn't b-believe she's real."

Drew frowned and looked at the exit. Begosian had
vanished. Recalling the presence of his pint-sized companion, Drew
swallowed his curse. An invisible friend? What the hell would his
psychologist tell him about such childish fantasies? Well, this girl had
been kidnapped and rescued—both by strangers. That should be enough
stress to trigger a busload of imaginary friends. Drew lifted his
glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was way out of his league
with children.

"Are you oh-k-kay, mister?"

Drew nodded. He even dredged up a rusty smile for
the girl. "Let's go find your mom."

Falling to one knee, he felt the girl snatched from
his grasp. He reached for his gun, but the brick bag struck him in the
face, sending his glasses flying.

"Help! Security!"

Fortunately, his astigmatism didn't prevent him
from seeing the bag hurtling his way for a third time. He deflected it
with his arm, twisted the straps around his wrist, and yanked the
offending weapon toward him.

Ms. Navy Blue Pinstripe came with it. They tumbled
backward, crashing onto the marble floor, her long legs twisting with
his. There was no time to enjoy the fantasy that sprang to mind. In a
split second she shifted, and Drew guessed the direction her knee was
headed.

"Damn it, lady, I'm on your side!"

He rolled over, pinning her to the floor beneath
him. She struggled valiantly, a sinuous, writhing, dangerous opponent
whom he dared not release if he intended to be physically able to chase
down Begosian.

"Mom! He's the g-good guy I told you about. He
s-saved me from the bad man! He's a policeman."

The girl's words stilled her mother's struggles.
With wary precision, Drew shifted the lower half of his body off hers
and knelt beside the woman. He helped her to a sitting position, but she
quickly jerked from his grasp, adjusting her clothes as she scooted away
from him.

"Show me your badge." Her throaty voice contained
more venom than sex appeal at the moment, and Drew judiciously obliged.

"I'm not a cop. I'm a private investigator working
for the district attorney's office," he explained. He pulled his wallet
from his pocket and opened it so she could match the picture on his I.D.
to his face.

All at once, Drew's world stood still. Face to
face, up close, he looked into eyes of deep smoky blue. She had
porcelain skin dusted with freckles, high cheekbones, and a regally
straight nose. Her perfect oval face, framed by dark brown hair, looked
familiar. Felt familiar

"Have we met before?" He heard his own voice as
little more than a rasp in his throat.

Her eyes narrowed. She studied his photo, then
looked at him. She scanned him from head to knee, from the crown of his
shaggy blond hair to the faded threads where his jeans had worn thin.

She curled her legs beneath her. Drew stood and
extended his hand to help her up. Once on her feet, she pulled away as
if his touch might transfer some horrible disease. She circled her arm
around her daughter, the ewe drawing her lamb into the fold. "Thank you
for helping Kerry."

Drew choked back his annoyance. As verbally polite
as leggy Ms. Priss might be, she'd relegated him to the status of that
Begosian creep. What had he wanted, really, an invitation to dinner?

"Sure. You'd better have a talk with her about
strangers, though."

The woman released the girl and squatted in front
of her. "How many times have we talked about trusting people you don't
know?"

Kerry shrugged. "Faith said it was oh-k-kay."

Her mother bristled. Her deep, controlling breath
made Drew wonder what she might have said if he wasn't standing there.
"Sweetie, you shouldn't listen to Faith if she tells you things you know
are wrong. Use your common sense."

"Faith s-said she'd protect me." The girl grew
agitated in her defense, and her struggling speech became almost
incoherent.

"Kerry! She's not real. Angels don't… " The rest
of the reprimand disappeared behind a cool mask of control that slipped
onto her face as though it had been there all along.

She stood and faced Drew, a woman of backbone and
grit. With a quivering chin. That acknowledgment of her emotion was
fleeting, and quickly hidden with an arrogant thrust of her jaw.
"Sometimes my daughter's imagination gets the better of her."

Drew wondered why she fought the display of
weakness. Most moms would be sobbing with relief or cussing up a storm
by now. But not this one. Maybe her detachment had nothing to do with
him, after all. Maybe she'd keep all her feelings locked up no matter
who she was with, whether it was a smooth talker in a three-piece suit
or a cynical bum like himself.

"No problem. Just glad I was here."

The woman's expression softened a bit. "I'm Emma
Ramsey. Do you need me to file a report?" Even in this clipped,
businesslike demeanor, her voice had a sexy undertone.

He fought the nagging feeling of recognition. Where
would a no-name like himself run into a class act like her? Only in his
dreams. He shook off his confusion. "I'll take care of it. I'd better
see if he's still on the premises."

Emma nodded. "Thanks again."

"You'll need these t-to c-catch the bad guy." Drew
looked down and found Kerry offering up his glasses.

"Thanks." Acting on an unusual impulse, Drew
reached out and cupped the girl's cheek. Her soft skin reminded him of
home. At least, it reminded him of the kind of place he wished he could
call home. The gentle touch earned him a shy smile that warmed him
despite her mother's frosty dismissal. "You listen to your mom, you
hear?"

"Oh-k-kay."

Drew put on his glasses and gave a mock salute to
Mrs. Ramsey. She clutched her daughter in front of her. He turned and
walked toward the exit where Begosian had disappeared. This do-gooder
stuff wasn't exactly his thing. The reluctant gratitude shining in that
mother's eyes and the wide-eyed trust placed in him by that little girl
were undeserved. And unwanted.

He came out at the top of a back stairwell.
Begosian was a cockroach kind of criminal. He'd keep to the dark, try to
blend in unnoticed if people were around. Drew pulled out his gun and
slipped down the stairs, noiselessly closing in on his prey. The
cockroach might not have escaped yet. He had probably moved slowly, not
wanting to draw attention to himself. Drew had no intention —

"Freeze! Drop your weapon!"

A door swung open and a security team swarmed in.
Surrounded, Drew slowly lowered his gun to the floor, keeping his free
hand raised in surrender. "Easy, guys, I'm with the D.A.'s office. I
have a permit. I was cleared when I came into the building."

One of the guards thumped him on the back, forcing
him to the floor. "Face down and stay put!"

The clock ticked away as Drew seethed with
indignant frustration. Several guards frisked him. One found his wallet
and identified him.

But Drew's opportunity had passed. The guards
returning his gun and i.d., dusting off his jacket, and apologizing
repeatedly did little to reverse Drew's darkening mood. Begosian was
long gone, and by now the trail would be cold. He'd botched what should
have been a textbook assignment for a seasoned pro like himself.

Nope. This was definitely not a good day. Sweet
little girls and sensible mothers weren't just out of his league. They
were bad luck, pure and simple. They'd never mix with a man like Drew
Gallagher.

* * *

Emma waited for the school bus to pull away before
hurrying across the parking lot to her customized van. After talking to
the police, it had taken a considerable degree of willpower to let Kerry
get on the bus with her classmates. What she really wanted to do was
bundle the girl up in her arms, take her home, lock the doors, and stand
watch over her.

But Kerry had begged to finish the day with her
friends, and Mrs. Arnold, her teacher, had assured Emma that maintaining
a normal routine would be beneficial to her wayward daughter. So Emma
had waved good-bye and buried her fears deep inside.

She concentrated on reviewing the rules of
self-defense that Jonathan had taught her, and she made a mental note to
reinforce those same precautions with Kerry. She had her keys ready as
she approached her van, and casually scanned the area, alert to spots
that offered hiding places for the kind of man who would steal a child
from her mother. Or detain a woman with bad come-on lines.

Have we met before? She allowed herself one,
short laugh. She'd heard all the lines—good and bad—and had turned them
all down. She was a married woman, after all. Although her heart might
be gathering dust on a shelf, it still belonged to her husband.

A voice inside her said he was still alive
somewhere, struggling against captors or injury to find his way home.
The men Jonathan Ramsey had served with continued to pursue any leads on
his whereabouts. She'd traced him through military channels. Foreign
embassies. Police. Private investigators.

But in five years, she'd found nothing. Nothing but
heartache and loneliness and a dying faith that he would one day return
to her.

Emma glanced beneath the frame of the neighboring
car and her van before stepping between the vehicles. She fought off a
feeling of guilt. Somehow, that Gallagher man had diverted her attention
long enough for her to lose track of Kerry. He was lanky and lean. So
intense, so unpredictable. With those incredible eyes. Behind his
glasses, Mr. Gallagher's eyes reminded her of rough-cut emeralds—deep
green, without a tinge of blue or gray.

She'd been wary of him. Yet he'd helped Kerry, and
for that she was grateful. But she couldn't shake the way his eyes had
stared at her. Hungry. Pleading. He'd made a silent request of her, but
she hadn't understood the question. Maybe they had met before. But she'd
have remembered a man like him—so polished beneath his coarse veneer,
with fluid strength and precise movements. He was coiled, cautious.

She had barely unlocked the van door when it was
yanked from her fingers. "Get in!"

A leather-gloved hand pushed her inside. "Move
over."

Emma obeyed the breathy commands. Shock clouded her
ability to think clearly, but she reacted on instinct. She jumped to the
other side of the vehicle, and her fingers worked like a broken toy,
struggling to open the passenger door handle.

"Don't."

The man's fingers clamped on to her elbow and
twisted it behind her back. He leaned over her, pinning her with his
heavier weight. Flight would not be possible. Out of breath, the man's
heavy panting fogged up the windows, leaving Emma to wonder if anyone
could see her plight. She schooled her panic.

"Who are you?" Her own breath caught on a strangled
whisper. "What do you want?"

"My name doesn't matter." She craned her neck to
study his face. She saw sweat beading on his forehead, despite the chill
of the day, and his wild gaze darted from the back of the van to the
windshield, looking for something neither of them could see. She
flinched when his gaze landed on her.

"I didn't intend to hurt your girl."

"You took her?" Fury swelled in her, overriding her
fear. Emma jerked against his grip, but the movement only angered him.

"You listen to me!" He yanked her arm in its
socket, forcing her down onto her knees in the space between the two
front seats. Emma yelped at the pain shooting through her shoulder, but
chose not to struggle. She gritted her teeth and listened to his
coldblooded offer.

"I have a computer disk with proof your husband is
still alive. For two hundred fifty thousand bucks I'll deliver it to
you."

"My God. You were going to give that message to my
daughter?"

She didn't know whether to scream or cry. To
deliberately involve Kerry in this cruel scheme as bait or incentive to
ensure her cooperation sickened her. But Jonathan? Could this bastard
really know something about her husband? The possibility beckoned her.
But her husband would never want her to be a part of something like
this. He'd made a career risking his life to save the world from
conscienceless predators like this lowlife.

"Where is he?" She heard herself ask the question,
five years of grief and despair overwhelming the morals of a lifetime.

His hot breath lapped against her ear as he bent
closer. "For another fifty, I'll tell you. Deal?" The driver-side door
wrenched open.

"Having car trouble, Mrs. Ramsey?"

The deadly quiet voice startled her assailant. His
grip slackened, and a blast of cold air swept over her Pulling her arm
down and cradling it against her stomach, she could turn just enough to
see a steel handgun pointed right at the man's temple.

She looked beyond his dazed expression to see the
predatory gleam stamped on the taut features of Drew Gallagher's angry
face. "Hands up, Begosian."

The eyes of her assailant dulled as he slowly
turned and placed both hands on the steering wheel. With his gun still
resting against her attacker's scalp, Gallagher spoke. "Let me help you
out."

Drew dragged the man from her van, and Emma
scrambled to her feet and climbed out after them. He hauled the man by
the lapels of his brown tweed coat into the open parking lot and shoved
him onto his knees upon the asphalt.

"Face down," he ordered, following the man down to
frisk him for weapons and handcuff him. Then, with his knee squared in
the middle of the guy's back, Drew pulled a cell phone from his jacket
and punched in a number.

Emma huddled inside her coat, chilled by the cool
efficiency of Drew Gallagher's actions as much as by the damp January
wind. The shiver drew his attention, and he finally looked at her. His
strange eyes narrowed. "You hurt?"

"Nothing serious." She dropped her gaze to the
dirty slush that stained the hem of her coat where she'd been forced to
kneel on the floor of the van. Had she been rescued a moment too soon?
Was the chance to find Jonathan about to be bundled off to the police
station?

"I thought you weren't a cop."

"I'm not." His short answer surprised her. "I'm
doing a favor for the D.A.'s office."

Before she could redirect her question, his party
answered and he stepped away to conduct his phone conversation in
hushed, efficient tones. Emma plunged her hands into her pockets and
shifted her curiosity to the man lying handcuffed on the pavement. She
had to raise her voice to be heard over his cursing and muttering about
his rights.

"Do you really know my husband?" she asked.

"I'm not saying nothing now! You're screwed. He's
screwed. Hell, I'm—" He spat the words at her, and in an instant she
found Drew Gallagher's strong back positioned between them, protecting
her from her assailant's spew of foul language. She could see neither
Drew's face nor the man's, but suddenly the man fell silent.

"Anything else you want to say?" challenged Drew.
His lanky height topped Emma's by only a few inches, yet an indefinable
energy radiated from his broad shoulders, making him seem bigger and
brawnier. He shielded her, made her feel feminine. He made her feel
safe.

"What's this guy's interest in your family?" asked
Drew, taking her elbow and guiding her several feet away, but not so far
that he couldn't keep watch over the man in handcuffs.

Her personal life was none of his business, but
unnerved by the unexpected warmth that radiated from deep inside her at
the protective gesture, Emma answered. "He says he has a computer disk
that can help me locate my husband."

"Your husband? How long has he been missing? Have
you reported it to the police?" He slipped his hands into the pockets of
his leather jacket.

"He's been gone five years." Her tone silenced a
chain of professional questions he no doubt wanted to ask. The same
questions she'd answered more times than she could count. "And there's
nothing the police can do to help me."

"Five years?" He said the words and an odd
transformation took place. The intensity in his catlike eyes wavered,
and suddenly Drew Gallagher was miles away from her.

Realizing the hopelessness of her situation, she
tried to draw him back, to show him the validity of her concern. "How
can I know if he's telling the truth? If he has that disk hidden
somewhere, I may never get a chance to see it."

Suddenly back, he drilled her with a look that made
her feel silly. "That's Stan Begosian. He's wanted in an investigation
for creating and distributing child pornography. You want me to release
him before the cops get here so he can give you a disk he may or may not
have? For all we know, it's a scam. That disk—if it does exist—might
contain nothing more than pictures of children he's taken. It could have
been a picture of your little girl."

"That's enough."

"I'm not trying to be cruel, but whatever he claims
. . . don't believe it."

Emma bristled at his easy dismissal of her last
shred of hope. "He knows who I am. That has to mean something."

"It means he's a conniving lowlife." Drew splayed
his fingers across his hips and stepped closer. "Look, the cops will
search his place. Ask them to look for the disk."

Emma tipped her chin to look him in the eye.
"Apparently your goal is simply to get your man, regardless of the cost
his actions or yours have on anyone else."

He pressed his mouth into a grim, flat line. Emma
clenched her toes inside her pumps to keep from backing away from the
disquieting intensity of his eyes. "I rescued your daughter today from
that creep. I just saved your butt. And now I'm the bad guy?"

Two black-and-white units pulled up, giving Emma an
opportunity to sneak a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding. With
their hands on their holstered guns, the officers hurried out and
surrounded Begosian. Drew turned to acknowledge them, then raked his
fingers through his hair, shaking loose his mane of wheat-gold waves.
His shoulders rose and fell in a deep breath before he turned back to
her.

"This has been more fun than I can stand, but we
have to stop meeting like this."

Her heart thumped in a funny rhythm at the veiled
disdain in his voice. Maybe she hadn't properly thanked him. But, savior
or not, he'd cost her a lead in finding Jonathan.

More than that, she couldn't be around a man whose
simple eye contact made her pulse pound in her veins. The instantaneous
awareness felt too much like betraying her husband.